Chapter 9: A Digital Scheherazade

'The more things change, the more they stay the same' is how the old saying goes; and there were times that the Doctor realised that he was as caught in that adage as everyone else.

Because things should have been different. Once he'd been a Time Lord, one of many. He'd borrowed a ship, gone for a little wander of the known and unknown, found himself on thousands of different galaxies and universes with Companions by his side. He'd found adventure and intrigue at every turn, he'd indulged that little instinct inside of him… that little niggling base desire that everyone has deep down, where they long to play the lauded hero.

But then there had been the Time War, and on the surface, it changed everything. He wasn't one of many, anymore; he was the last… and his jaunts around the Universe smelled suspiciously of running away.

Yet there was a certain sameness for what had been and what was now. Because he still found himself wandering with a Companion –albeit a small green imp instead of a normal pink human- by his side, and still found himself embroiled in adventure and intrigue.

And yes; despite his firm protestations that he didn't do that anymore –save the day, be a hero– perhaps he did often find himself doing just that. He was there the night Krakatoa exploded, and ruined his favourite jacket pulling people to safety. He spent some time in Southampton at the urging of Threnody (who'd suggested that a nice trip to the seaside might do him some good) and found himself embroiled up with the Daniels' family, posing as the absent-minded butler who lost the tickets for their ship to America and paid from his own pocket to get them on another that left a few weeks later.

(And when the news of the sink of the Titanic shook the world, and the Daniels' realised how close their demise had been; there were grateful tears and fervently whispered thank you's that provided the barest sense of peace in his hearts, just for a moment.)

He wasn't a hero, the Doctor thought as he stood in a crowd of people cheering and jostling him with knees and elbows in unspeakable places. He couldn't be, not after Gallifrey; but Threnody's words echoed in his mind sometimes… that doing what he was doing, saving people. It would never fix things. But maybe, it helped him atone for what he'd destroyed.

Except here, unable to do anything except watch as JFK collapsed, it wasn't always easy to remember that.

"Why did you go?" Threnody asked later. For a computer, she could sound remarkably peevish when she was addressing his faults. "It's a fixed point, Doctor. Nothing you could do."

He shrugged. "Listen to you, sounding like a nagging wife! Telling me what I should and shouldn't do…you'll be reminding me to wipe my feet and put out the trash next."

There was a loud protest of interference through the speakers that sounded rather like indignant sputtering; and the Doctor hid a grin. He'd learned in the past weeks that he actually had fun annoying Threnody and hearing her responses.

"Maybe," she hissed, "you don't need a nagging wife, but a sharp slap sometimes!"

"Ooh, you're into that; are you?"

For that remark, he was treated to thirty seconds of a high pitched squeal that made him wince and scramble for the volume button.

"Thought maybe I could've," the Doctor admitted, once he'd managed to turn Threnody's angry wail down and massaged his ears. "I know it's a fixed point. Not worth tearing the Universe apart..."

But it was intoxicating, in a way. Redeeming himself through saving people. When the Daniels were safe he'd felt his hearts lighten for a moment; and they were only a normal family with normal lives. But imagine how being the one to avert history and save JFK would've felt? A high like no other.

"Have you forgotten your Princess?" Threnody asked. There was always a pause, before she used that title. As though she was reluctant to.

"No, I haven't forgotten her," he sniped. "Just been busy. She's holding."

"She certainly is. Waiting for you to come save her."

"Is she in danger?" he asked. "What happens if I don't get there right now?"

There was a very long pause, and then Threnody sighed.

"Nothing," she admitted. "Nothing will happen to her. She'll just keep waiting, that's all. Losing hope."

Losing hope weren't the right words to use; and River knew that. Getting exhausted would've been closer. Wondering when he'd hurry up, already.

Yet she couldn't fault him for the trips he took now, searching for other things to do and people to save (even if they weren't poem-mandated). For one thing, she was with him on each one. Trotting alongside, looking out from that oddly foreshortened view…though she still couldn't come to terms with not being able to speak or move. It was difficult; she'd always been so physical that just watching events unfold was misery.

And, too, he talked to her now when he returned to the TARDIS every night; instead of at her like she was a thing. He'd tell her about the people he saw and things he'd done, the places he'd always thought of going and maybe would in the future. In turn, she talked to him as well. Suggested places for him to visit, slipped in little titbits of history or the pointless trivia that she knew he loved.

She hated it –the waiting- but she could be patient. Because every day she saw him become less bitter, less angry; more positive and thoughtful and alive as he shook off the horrors of the Time War.

He was becoming her Doctor again; and she could wait a little longer to be rescued. No need to abandon hope yet.

"I'm tired," he murmured suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She watched as he sank down against the console, pulling his jacket over his torso like a blanket. His face was relaxed, dark spiky eyelashes fluttering closed; and she felt a little surge of love sweep through her at seeing him like that.

"And here I thought Time Lords didn't need sleep," teased River, leaving the armchair she usually perched in to climb onto the bed. She pulled a pillow into her arms, resting the mirror on the top…it was a poor substitute for actually having him with her, but the best she could do.

"We don't need sleep." He sounded petulant. "But sometimes we like it. That's very different than needing anything, Threnody."

She chuckled, wishing -as ever- that she could reach out to stroke a hand over his forehead, press a kiss lightly on his lips. It was times like this that she missed being with him; because in her past and his future, he'd been the same way. Curling up at her side and resting his head on her shoulder, lazily twisting her curls around his fingers and asking: 'tell me again why the locals on Beta 6 think you're a Goddess? It's the hair, isn't it? Must be.'

After the running was done and the adventures were solved, he was always like that. Peaceful and snuggly; almost like a drowsy child listening to a bedtime story. She almost had to wonder if that very out-of-characterness she'd always wondered about him had its roots here; her Ninth Doctor listening to Threnody at the end of his day.

"Are you there, Threnody?"

"Always, Doctor." She made her voice soft and soothing, smiling as he stifled a yawn. "I'm always here when you need me."

"Nice." He didn't sound sarcastic, though. More wondering. As though he'd doubt anyone's devotion to him.

"Tell me a story? A good one, this time."

"They're all good, Doctor."

He scoffed, with a bit of that attitude she had become so familiar with. "No, they're not. Sometimes you tell me boring histories."

The problem was that there were so many things she couldn't tell him. Any story that had to do with him or his future. Anything that mentioned River Song, especially; because even now, they still lived with spoilers hanging over their heads. The Sea Witch had been right. There were rules –there were always rules- and she couldn't risk telling him of anything he might recognize in the future, and possibly change.

So she told him fairy tales. The normal ones at first: Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, Pinocchio and Cinderella. And then she'd started telling him the odder ones. The Girl who Trod on a Loaf. The Wild Swans. Jorinda and Joringel- though he'd mocked that one unceasingly. A girl turned into a nightingale and kept in a gilded cage, a boy searching for a magic flower that would turn her back into herself and break the spell… she couldn't bear to tell him that it bore a certain resemblance to their own situation.

"They are good," River repeated, brushing her fingers over the pillow and imagining she could feel his skin beneath hers, warm and fragrant. "All stories are."

He made a little grunt of disagreement. "There are strange and amazing things out in the Universe, Threnody, and strange and wonderful people that go with them. How's about you tell a story with them, instead of things with insects crawling on people's eyes, or making shirts out of nettles…"

"As you wish," River murmured, unable to resist teasing. She thought for a moment, of what to say.

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a Princess with long golden curls locked in a tower. Now, you should know that she wasn't your normal sort of Princess from the storybooks. You know the type: the slender girls in long pink gowns who drip grace and charm with every gesture, and spend their lives attended by bluebirds and sentient teapots and seamstress mice."

"Let me guess," the Doctor interrupted. "This Princess is the clever, stubborn type. Someone who is wilful and selfish, but occasionally selfless enough to save the people she cares about?"

"Well… something like that. And one day, she did something that might have been brave, and was definitely a bit stupid… but she thought it was for the best. And then she woke up in a tower, and was waiting for her Prince to save her."

She could see the Doctor's entire frame tense. But he didn't open his eyes, didn't ask any questions; even if River knew he was smart enough to understand, without her having to spell out why she was telling this story.

"Now, if she wasn't your normal Princess, he most certainly wasn't your normal Prince. He could be a bit rude and overly dramatic, and sometimes –alright, often– talked too much. But he was clever, and," she smiled, "hot. And she loved him; and so she waited…"